Untouched
by pherede
Summary: John Blake has done his introspection, his self-examination: he wants this. He wants Bane. He is willing to accept any terms.


[[Author's Note: This is some pretty dark, distressing stuff, with very mature themes. Consider yourself warned.]]

"You're here."

Bane sounds surprised to find him here, even though this night has been scheduled for weeks, and John has already demonstrated his utter inability to say _no _to him. It was Bane's summons that brought him here the first time, Bane's territory without a single man of backup for John to rely upon, and Bane's fingers that opened John's mouth so that he could look inside like a man inspecting the workings of a machine.

Now John is sitting in a long-abandoned warehouse in a bad part of town, stripped completely naked and waiting, shivering in his skin, because these are Bane's terms. The reward- _information, John, a raid by a man I do not wish to see succeed_- means nothing by now; it's enough that he was ordered to come here, to fold his slacks and his shirt and his underclothing and stack it all neatly in a corner, and to... prepare himself.

_Open yourself,_ Bane had said, his rich resonant voice amused at John's downcast eyes. _Wide open._

And John's eyes are still downcast when the door opens; he catches a brief glimpse of four men taking their places outside, guarding, and then the light is blocked out by the massive form of Bane. The man's shoulders scarcely fit through the door.

The latch snicks shut; the light in this dusty place recedes. Only a few bare bulbs are visible, high above in the rafters. Bane steps closer, a tangible air of menace surrounding him, and John feels his skin breaking into goosebumps.

He is already hard, despite the cold. It doesn't even occur to him that he should be self-conscious, even with his cock on display; it's only natural that Bane should see this, should have him exposed so completely. He has done his introspection, his self-examination: he wants this. He wants Bane. He is willing to accept any terms.

There is a mattress on a frame here, in the shadows; John didn't see it before, but Bane guides him over to it with one hand on the back of his neck. "Sit down," says Bane, and then he strips; his enormous coat, his vest, his boots, his trousers all pile on the floor, haphazard in stark contrast to the neatly folded cloth by the door. John seats himself on the edge, though his carefully prepared asshole is sensitive, and tries not to shift on the hard mattress.

It was no mean feat for him to prepare himself for this. He is still inexperienced with men; he only recalls a few instances of experimentation, lonesome nights in the boys' home looking for affection and approval, and he was not prepared for how profoundly his own fingers could affect him.

Perhaps it was the images that his mind's eye showed him while he worked, the sheen of Bane's sweat on his massive shoulders, the flexion of that mighty chest as he tilted John's head up and down, moving him at whim. He was not, to be precise, _close_; but he was painfully aware of a deep, gnawing hunger in his body, and the object of that craving was now before him, shucking away the final layers of fabric.

And then Bane is naked, stark bare except for his mask, and John's blood rushes in his ears. Bane's cock is _massive_. Proportionate, John supposes, feeling a strange humming detachment that takes a few moments to recede.

"Make me come," says Bane, quiet danger in his voice. "You will ride me, you will impale yourself on me, and you will make me come before you do."

There is no consequence given for failure; Bane knows that John will do what he says. He lies out on the bed, flat on his back, stretches his arms up to tuck them behind his head, and nods at John: _come do this thing_.

It's one of the hardest things John has ever done, mounting this man's formidable body, and Bane does nothing to help him; John's legs are sprawled wide, knees uncomfortably bent, as he places the head of Bane's cock against his sensitized opening. For all the preparation he's done, it's not enough: even just the head is too much, too thick, oh god John's head is swimming. He has to stop for a moment, supporting himself with the heels of his hands dug into Bane's broad chest, breathing deep while his asshole clenches and settles around the intrusion.

Bane's eyes, barely visible in the dark, are as inscrutable as his mask, implacable and deep. John has taken perhaps an inch of him, taken only the narrowest part.

A minute passes, and John collects himself and pushes downward again, onto the true thickness of Bane's shaft, and while it's even wider at this point at least there's no change in diameter, so he's able to ease himself down a few more inches before he draws up short, gasping.

He had thought this to be simple, straightforward: he would work himself down and ease into the act, let his ass adjust until he could bounce on Bane's cock like the whore he is making of himself, suffer through the burn of his thighs' protest until Bane erupted into him. Then, he felt sure, he would orgasm, either before Bane withdrew or after John was left alone in the warehouse to clean and dress himself; at any rate, what he had craved was not the release of orgasm, but the bulk of Bane's arms engulfing him, _forcing _him.

And now Bane is doing nothing, letting him do this work; John has not yet completed a full stroke, and he fears that he will come before he reaches the bottom.

Another inch, and another; John is so full that the angle seems irrelevant. The pressure against his prostate, against his inner walls, is so complete that he sobs for breath with every tiny movement, every adjustment of balance.

Finally he sits flush at the base of Bane's abdomen, the ring of his ass contracting and spasming in its distress. White lights flash and twinkle at the edge of his vision. He feels displaced, rearranged from the inside. He gasps for air, leaning forward, unable to find even a moment's relief.

Then Bane's cock flexes in him, purposeful and strong, making his whole body convulse; John's hands slip on Bane's chest, and he has to scramble to regain his support, while deep in his belly he feels the burn of fullness and the heavy ache of his body preparing to betray him.

"Make me come," says Bane again, and there is a languor in his voice that tells John his work is already begun, but far from finished. Shaking, struggling to contain his pleasure, he draws himself up the length of it, digs his fingers into Bane's chest, and sinks back down.

This is torture; this is unbearable. John wishes that Bane would simply take command, take responsibility for John's debauching, thrust up into him violently. Instead, this is his fate, to rise up with trembling thighs and fall down again, clear liquid seeping from his slit and dripping down onto Bane's belly with every slow, careful stroke.

_Faster_, says Bane, and his voice is darker, thicker with arousal. His voice shows nothing of the frantic burning siege of sensation that batters John's body; John suspects that the pleasure Bane is taking from this is mostly psychological so far. He can't imagine that Bane could be brought even this far by a few slow, tentative strokes of his cock.

So John moves faster, groaning in agony and delirium as he picks up the pace; now his thighs burn, now his abdominal muscles ache, and those are still nothing compared to how fiercely, how terribly he needs to come. He rides Bane, rolls his ass up and down, dedicates the last of his sanity to this impossible task; he finds a rhythm that matches the thunder of Bane's pulse, and he keeps it, even though it costs him every shred of dignity as he whimpers and moans and begs.

Every second of this is torment and bliss. There is a continual tide rising in John, a wave that crashes against him again and again, only withstood by a hundred- a thousand- tiny acts of wretched, swollen will. He cannot possibly keep the pace, but he knows that his time is already limited, and the tide will carry him out to sea whether he rides for his life or simply sinks, paralyzed, to gasp and rock until his seed escapes in ribbons. There is only one chance for him, and that is to steel himself, to let the shocks and spasms race through his gut and tighten his balls, and to give his body to Bane in full.

There are movements, now; Bane is not thrusting, but there is a tremor in his belly, a tension in his thighs, and John knows he cannot stop now. Bane's breath grows rasping and harsh; he spreads his arms out to either side, controlled, making a show of relaxation; but John's mind is near breaking and minutiae are all that he can cling to, and he sees the way Bane's fingers furrow the sheets, and he knows he is close to achieving his goal.

It is _so _hard. It is a greater task than anything John has ever imagined, simply to hold himself back from orgasm for another second at a time, just to keep himself abreast of the wave that will, inevitably, break over him. He sees Bane's hand move, slightly, and he sees Bane's body shift, and he knows that Bane is about to touch him.

Bane's hand, articulate and muscular, will come over just so far, and his fingers will close around John's hip and buttock, and John will be completely undone, he cannot bear it. He cannot break. He can only beg, and beg he does, finally managing to form his pathetic mews and cries into words: _fuck me, fuck me, fill me up with your cock, come on and fuck me Bane fuck me come on_-

And Bane does. His thighs pull tight, his buttocks rise from the bed, and the impact of his hipbones on John's tormented ass knocks the breath out of him. Once- twice- John feels himself tipping, feels the footing go out from under him. It's fast and it's so brutal that John's entire body is jolted back and forth; inside him, the pressure on his prostate becomes a terrible pleasure that threatens to engulf his whole body, and John has only a few gasping moments to see his defeat approaching and to accept it, and then by some miracle Bane groans long and deep and John feels himself being filled, feels Bane coming under and within and _with _him.

He has a half-moment's wild hope that he can hold out long enough for Bane to finish, but he has already begun to drown in the wave, and his breath comes in ragged moans as he spends himself across Bane's still-clenching belly, his whole body protesting as the rhythmic spasms of orgasm rack him from head to toe. He is scarcely aware, a moment later, of Bane withdrawing from him, or of the gush of fluid that escapes him; he is still, in some way, coming when Bane rolls him easily to the side and lets him curl fetal on the soiled mattress.

From some impossible distance, he sees Bane set an envelope on the neat stack of his folded clothing, and he hears that rumbling voice: _You've done your work well, boy_. Then there is the snick of a latch, the play of light around broad shoulders, a blinding moment of full sun, and he is gone.


End file.
